


tie strings to clouds

by peterdonaldson



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, Piningjolras, i am a bad person i know, protest, read the warnings guys, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 10:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peterdonaldson/pseuds/peterdonaldson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Yes, Grantaire has always been there, angry and loud and breathtaking and, achingly, so unbearably sad. Enjolras has never been anything but completely spellbound by him.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	tie strings to clouds

**Author's Note:**

> title from jónsi's 'go do'. i guess read the warnings, guys, seriously.  
> this was meant to be a piningjolras drabble, but i am a Bad Person so it went in a slightly different direction - um. my apologies in advance.

Looking back on it, Enjolras isn’t sure there was ever a time when he  _hadn’t_ noticed Grantaire. From the very first ABC meeting, way back before Feuilly had found the Musain and they still had to host the gatherings in Combeferre’s shitty basement, Grantaire has been an ever present entity: a distraction, a noise, an argument so complex that only Enjolras could be reliably counted on to take him on every single time. Brought along by Bahorel and solidly fixed in the role of unwilling cynic, only coming in the first place because of an owed favour, Grantaire’s eyes had lit up at the first contradictory opinion, and there had been fire blazing in his eyes and then from his mouth as he rose to his feet to fight back. The words he spoke were harsh, spat out like bullets, yet when riled up the passionate fervour he glowed with made it almost impossible to believe that there was no idealism there at all.

Yes, Grantaire has always been there, angry and loud and breathtaking and, achingly, so unbearably sad. Enjolras has never been anything but completely spellbound by him.

They fight all the time, and Enjolras doesn’t understand quite how much he needs it, sometimes, a resolute wall of opposing opinion to run at and bounce off and try to climb, try to beat, despite the deep down knowledge that no one will ever be able to shift Grantaire if he doesn’t want them to. The others in the group watch their more fiery displays with nothing short of awe, even Eponine, who they all learned the hard way can fight better than most of them in every meaning of the word. They argue and they shout and they scream until their voices turn hoarse and they have to be torn apart, but Enjolras never fails to notice the slight sarcastic smile which never quite manages to leave the ever-moving twist of Grantaire’s lips throughout the duration of their arguments. He can read so many meanings into it, and it confuses him and pulls him off balance – after all, Grantaire certainly loves to fight with anyone who will stand against him, Enjolras is not the only one – but increasingly Enjolras finds himself wanting to lean forward and  _bite_  at it until Grantaire understands and finds other ways to argue with Enjolras’ body; to fight and wrestle until there is nothing left but stickiness and sweat and bare, raw emotion between the two of them. Fighting with Grantaire makes Enjolras feel  _ravaged_ , and he can never go long without needing another fix of Grantaire’s scorching, scorching heat.

It scares him, sometimes, that Enjolras never feels more alive than when he’s with Grantaire.

With the passage of time, their group goes bolder, venturing away from university campus and talk of revolution to real protest, orchestrated and meticulously planned speeches, even testimonials, which spark up more interest in the Friends of the ABC than ever before. Eventually, people come not just because of their sympathetic beliefs, but to argue with Enjolras themselves, to try and topple the infamous golden leader and tear apart his words. Of course, Enjolras faces them as publicly as possible and shreds their arguments, turning them to dust every single time. He has no worry or fear that someone will catch him unawares; he has fought with the strongest of them all, and although there are many faces in the crowd these days he has not lost the ability to notice Grantaire over time. And his is one face never absent from the audience, his eyes always trained on Enjolras, always, setting free a gnawing ache into his belly which crawls under his skin and sends his awareness into overdrive. Grantaire’s face stands out with such clarity, making Enjolras want to throw things

(him)

(against a wall)

(hard)

and he only ever fights harder with Grantaire’s odd eyes on him – one piercingly blue and cold, like his own, the other an even brown that radiates warmth to the centre of Enjolras’ being.

He’s never lied to himself, he knows how badly he wants (needs) Grantaire, but some shred of sanity left in his brain tell him to focus on his causes, focus on his work, leave that bridge for crossing another day. Courfeyrac, of course, has known from the very start, and now that the initial teasing and mocking is long over, he tells Enjolras on an increasingly frequent basis to get his act together and fuck the living daylights out of Grantaire before they all go mad from the overwhelming sexual tension. Combeferre points out that, in all honesty, keeping it bottled up like this probably isn’t exactly healthy, and it really might be best to follow Courfeyrac’s advice before some permanent damage gets done. Joly and Bossuet have taken to flaunting their relationship almost aggressively in front of him in an attempt to get him to snap. Even  _Gavroche_ has noticed, actually asking Enjolras if he  _needs any advice_  (the little shit). Enjolras agrees with all of them, he really does. The need to crowd Grantaire up against some hard, flat surface and make him forget his own name, whisper sweet, filthy nothings into his ear as he comes and memorize the look on his face as he does so – it threatens to overcome him sometimes. Has overcome him, when he’s alone in the shower with nothing but his own hands and a surprisingly creative imagination. But they’re planning something big right now, - a demonstration with representation from several of the causes that ABC fights for, joining together to show to true injustices of the world they live in loudly enough to be heard. There will be cameras, and police, and no doubt many of those who oppose them will turn up looking for a fight as well, and as the day draws nearer there’s no time for anything but preparation, concentration, planning, designing, redesigning, reorganising – Enjolras’ whole life is consumed by it. Still, it does nothing to dampen the flames that Grantaire still sparks within him whenever their eyes meet. The pressure is mounting, getting heavier with each day that passes, and eventually he admits to himself that he has to do something about it. He’ll go mad otherwise.

So he makes himself swear a promise. If this demonstration actually pulls off, if all their hard work is rewarded and their plans come together to make this truly work out on the day, then he will hunt Grantaire down the second it is over and show him just how much he’s noticed him.

Yes. The demonstration will go well, and he will take it as a sign, and he will learn Grantaire inside out, the way he’s always wanted to.

God, the things he will do to him.

At long last, the day arrives, and the city is buzzing – a low hum threaded with excitement, with anger, and with just a hint of danger. Enjolras can taste it, heavy and delicious in the air around him, and he breathes it in, takes as much as he can into his lungs. The square they have negotiated for use is packed, individual groups and organisations just about distinguishable but mingling; joining – they are all here for the same reason: to be heard. Police line the roads leading into the square, and they can be identified around the area as well by their neon coats, quite literally highlighting them out as different. Stands have been erected at various points, and a larger platform is centralized for each group to take a turn at. At the moment, Combeferre is stood atop it with Enjolras at his side, discussing some last minute detail in a low voice with a girl from a different group. He recognises her, thinks she might be one of Courfeyrac’s friends – her head is shaved, political messages scrawled in ink act as sleeves after her t-shirt ends, and her delicate eyes flicker across the Combeferre’s clipboard with concentration as she nods at what he is saying. He thinks Courfeyrac might have brought her to a couple of meetings, a few months back. He can’t remember. Casting his eyes about, he sees others he recognises in the crowd, familiar faces he can’t place, but then his eyes settle on Grantaire (as they are inevitably wont to do these days) who is arguing heatedly with Gavroche. He seems to be pointing quite aggressively in the direction of a side street, and Gavroche is replying with his middle finger, and Enjolras knows he is trying to get him to leave. Grantaire is so _protective_ of his friends, people who know him less well would say he doesn’t care about anything, but Enjolras knows this isn’t true. He cares passionately about his friends, cares so deeply, and it’s beautiful to see the concern behind his anger as he calls Eponine over and watches her march a wriggling Gavroche away, his arms folded and a smug expression on his face. Then he turns and catches Enjolras’ eye, and his expression barely shifts (except, perhaps, a tiny quirk in the corner if his mouth and a barely noticeable raise of his eyebrows which Enjolras does notice because _of course he does_ ). Enjolras watches him as he turns away, and his eyes follow his movements through the crowd. For one moment, his heart leaps into his chest as he thinks he sees Grantaire heading the same way as Gavroche, to _leave_ – but it turns out he’s simply gone to speak to Bahorel and Jehan. A slight sigh escapes him, and he makes himself turn back to Combeferre and the plans – there will be time enough to look at Grantaire later, once this is all over.

The clock strikes eleven, the agreed time, and the groups begin to assemble around their own stands. Leaders clamber up, speeches begin, and soon the entire square is filled with noise and clamour. Enjolras loves it, loves this, as he stands and shouts with revolutionary ardour into the crowd – who shout back with equal fervour, joining him in his passion. After half an hour, the initial speeches begin to quiet, and people begin to organise themselves into groups again – the march will be beginning soon. The route had taken months of planning; Feuilly and Bossuet arguing with the other groups and the police about it every day for weeks, but finally they agreed upon a set path for them all to follow that the police would have easy access to and be able to patrol without too much fuss. It’s a little bit different to how Enjolras would have wanted it, but if he’s learnt one thing over the past couple of years it’s that the authorities don’t take it too kindly if an obnoxious twenty-something comes barging in and starts complaining about how their decisions are going to affect his plans. Combeferre, Feuilly and Bossuet took over negotiations after Enjolras’ third arrest, and he has to admit things have gone a lot smoother since.

He takes his place at the head of the group, beside Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and they begin to lead the whole procession out of the square. Some carry signs, some bear slogans on their shirts, others simply shout their thoughts, but he stays silent. He knows people are watching him, waiting for this to turn into his show, but that’s not what today is about and he will wait his turn.

They make it three streets before they meet any trouble. When they turn a corner to see the group – and there are more of them than they anticipated – Enjolras forces his face to remain impassive. He keeps walking; apparent insouciance in his every step, but he can see that some of them have brought weapons and it’s not a cause for _panic_ , exactly, more that he’s worried how some of the others will react. Those like Bahorel, who’s always up for a fight. Those like Grantaire.

He feels Combeferre’s hand on his arm, and he can tell their thoughts have led them to the same conclusion. He’s about to turn his head and ask Combeferre if he has any ideas, when a man at the front of the other group calls out to a woman in a wheelchair a few people along from Enjolras. What he says makes Combeferre’s grip tighten, and Enjolras feels a familiar rage begin to boil in the pit of his stomach. The slur is vile and sickening, and he wants to run at the man and make him _hurt_ , but he doesn’t.

The man stood next to the woman in the wheelchair does, though.

And all of a sudden, before anyone can do anything to maintain any semblance of order, there’s a rush of people around him and people are fighting and although Combeferre’s still there, a silent warning in his touch, Enjolras has never been able to hold back when people are getting hurt and he doesn’t think twice before he’s locked in the crowd, ripping a gas pistol from the hand of a woman in a transphobic shirt and pulling another man off of Joly’s back. Of course, as soon as someone spots him (and he is so identifiable, the long blonde curls stand out in the crowd like a beacon) they grab at his arms and hold them back, and he blacks out for a second as he is hit across the face with what feels like a piece of wood. The blows keep coming, but he stares resolutely through his swollen eyes at the man beating him, determined to stay awake for as long as he can. This isn’t the first time he’s been beaten up at a rally, but the wood splinters against his skin and he can feel them embedding themselves into his cheek and along his eyebrow, forcing one eye to swell shut completely. The pain is consuming, it always is, but he has to stare them down, he cannot let them continue to think what so many already do – that he is weak, that he can shout and rile up a crowd but never fight back in the physical sense, that he is simply words. The wood is replaced by a fist, and this hit dislocates his jaw (he’s pretty sure). Through the slit that remains of his vision, he sees the man pull his fist back again, and just as he prepares for the next blow, the man is knocked back by someone in a green hoodie.

He closes his eyes.

The hands are wrenched from his back, and he hears the sound of flesh hitting flesh, knows that Grantaire will be knocking out the man who held him down. Then there is the unmistakable _smack_ of a head against pavement, and Grantaire is kneeling in front of him.

“Oh God… _Enjolras_ …”

He lolls against Grantaire’s hands, which are pressed against his sides, and whispers the words _thank you_ into the air. He hopes he’s facing Grantaire, but he doesn’t want to open his eyes to find out.

“Jesus – Joly! Combeferre!” Grantaire shouts the names of their friends into the air, their medical friends, the ones who can help the most, but Enjolras shakes his head. They won’t hear.

Grantaire helps him over to the edge of the road, and tells him to sit down.

“Open your eyes, Enjolras, open them and look at me - tell me if you’re feeling sleepy, the second you start feeling sleepy - ”

Enjolras opens his eyes as far as he can, because Grantaire is asking him to. He shakes his head again, and tries to get to his feet; to head back into the group, but Grantaire puts his hands to his shoulders and forces him back down.

“No fucking way. No _fucking_ way. Sit down, I am going to go and find Joly or Combeferre and you are going to stay here, understand?”

“For fuck’s sake, I’m _fine_ ,” Enjolras tries to say, garbling his words only slightly around his aching jaw. Grantaire shakes his head, and Enjolras thinks he can see a tear-track on his face.

“You are so fucking _stupid_ , Jesus Christ, I hate you sometimes, I am going and you are staying, don’t you dare move, oh my god.”

Enjolras gets to his feet as soon as Grantaire disappears into the crowd, intent on following him and protecting him, the ridiculous man. He stumbles a little, but the world rights itself quickly enough, and he continues forwards. He can see Grantaire in his hoodie next to Joly, who is wrapping a bandage around the arm of the girl with the shaved head that Combeferre had been talking to earlier. He’s gesticulating wildly, and Joly is nodding, finishing up the wrapping and getting to his feet. Enjolras sees his eyes widen before his mouth opens – to shout a warning, they don’t even find out because suddenly Grantaire is on the ground and there’s a gunshot ringing in Enjolras’ ears.

Everything goes silent. People have stopped, looking around, there is confusion in the air, and the man holding the gun looks shocked to his core himself. Enjolras doesn’t care. He is running, tripping over others and stumbling forward again, panic in every fibre of his being because holy god there is blood spreading across the hoodie and Joly has Grantaire’s head nestled in his lap, Enjolras thinks he might be talking to him but he can’t hear what he’s saying; he collapses to his knees next to Joly and there’s ice shooting through his veins. Grantaire’s gaze is unfocused, darting, his face pale and his hands limp, and Enjolras grabs at them, clutches at them, his one good eye locked on Grantaire’s. Joly’s crying, he can tell, and that’s when he knows just how absolutely not good this is because Joly is so professional at his work, he will carry on through absolutely everything, and he would never give up on someone – least of all a friend – when there was hope left.

Enjolras’ eyes blur, and he drags a hand over them angrily, ignoring the pain, because he needs to see Grantaire, goddammit, needs to talk to him, needs to keep him awake, oh god oh god oh god –

A hand grasps at his shoulder, and he can hear a thick voice saying _get up, Enjolras, get up, he has to breathe_ but how can they expect him to leave Grantaire, he has to fix him; he shoves the hand away.

Grantaire’s eyes find his, and he coughs, and it’s a horrible bubbling cough which freezes in Enjolras’ memory forever. He opens his mouth, to say what he doesn’t know, but in the end he only manages a hoarse and cracked “ _Grantaire_ \- ” before he sees Grantaire’s eyes flutter and fall half shut. He can only see the whites, the irises are gone, and he can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe.

Joly has slumped back, his hands lax on Grantaire’s head, and Enjolras can hear more crying now but he leans forward, grasps at Grantaire, shakes him, tries to wake him up, and he thinks he might be shouting but he can’t be sure that the voice belongs to him. He has to talk to Grantaire, he has to _tell_ him, why would Grantaire leave him before he could tell him –

It’s Combeferre’s hand that pulls him back, and Combeferre that holds him, but he doesn’t make Enjolras let go of Grantaire’s hand. Nobody would be able to now, even if they tried.

“I need to tell him,” Enjolras whispers, and Combeferre just hold him tighter.

The police are gathering now, and the fighting has been broken off – this was meant to be a peaceful protest, and the terms of their agreement have been violated. They try to get to Enjolras - to arrest him? He doesn’t know or care. But Courfeyrac goes over to them, begins to talk in a blank, empty voice, and Enjolras doesn’t take his eyes off of Grantaire. Somebody moves to shut his eyes, and that’s when Enjolras squeezes his own shut, turns his head into Combeferre’s chest, and all he can think about is that after all this time he’s never going to be able to tell Grantaire. He hates Grantaire too, because Grantaire is never going to listen to what Enjolras needs to say.

He tries to start breathing again.

It doesn’t work.


End file.
